Life at Number 4
by Elocindancer
Summary: Life at Number 4 Privet Drive was suddenly and irrevocably changed forever the night Harry was left on the Dursley's doorstep. Vernon, Petunia, and even young Dudley liked things just so, and just so did not include the addition of a certain green eyed infant. (Takes place following Chapter 1 of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.)
1. Chapter 1

Life at Number 4, Chapter 1

"Ahhh!"

A scream rent the air of Privet Drive, causing a squirrel near the end of the road to hastily abandon his gathering of nuts, which he had spent the last several hours lovingly placing in a hole at the base of a tree. The noise might have caused a larger commotion, but it was quite early, only 6:00 o'clock in the morning, and most of the residents of Privet Drive were either still in bed or sleepily scrubbing through their morning shower.

The only one who seemed to notice the scream, which was hastily cut off nearly as soon as it was begun, was the resident of Number 7 Privet Drive, Mrs. Arabella Figg. This was no coincidence, however, as she had been watching Number 4 for several hours, nearly all night, and was expecting something to happen. She leaned closer to her window, kneeling on her couch in a most uncomfortable way. A cat jumped up and tried to curl up on her legs, but she twitched it away.

"Not _now_ , Tibbles," she said, a bit regretfully, as he stalked away, clearly disgruntled. She turned her attention back to Number 4, but the doorway was now empty. She pulled herself up a bit, no easy feat as she was, as she put it, "getting on in years", and she had never been a tall woman. She tried to see over Number 5's hedge, which was much too high, but no luck. Finally she gave in and stood straight up on the couch, peering across the street. There it was. The little bundle was still lying there, though Mrs. Figg was sure it had been seen. She had, after all, watched Mrs. Number 4 open the door and surely the scream had come from her. For the first time, Mrs. Figg actually wished she lived a bit closer to Number 4. She had never been fond of the people who lived there. It contained a rather portly husband with a ridiculously large moustache, a tall, skinny wife (both features for which Mrs. Figg would never forgive Mrs. Number 4), and a chubby boy, always whining and crying and causing much more noise than was strictly required for a toddler.

But now Mrs. Figg had a reason to want to be nearer, for she had a job to do. It would not be easy, but she was never one to shy away from hard work. She kept her eyes on the bundle and promised herself she wouldn't leave her post on the couch until something was done about it.

* * *

Mr. Dursley had had a bad night. He had lain awake for hours, worrying about the owls and the mention of the Potters he had overheard yesterday, and then slept poorly and woke in a foul mood. He was just combing his moustache when he heard the stifled scream, and he paused, listening. Was that….Petunia? He hurried downstairs and found Mrs. Dursley standing at the front door, one hand clapped over her mouth as if she were afraid bats would fly out of it if she let go. Her other hand clutched a bit of paper Mr. Dursley couldn't see well.

"Petunia?" He said, and she turned her head slowly to gaze at him. Her eyes seemed as large as dinner plates as she stared. The scream had woken Dudley, as well, and he began wailing upstairs in his crib. Most appallingly, and perhaps for the first time in his short little life, Mrs. Dursley did not immediately run to get him as she usually did. This, more than anything, scared Mr. Dursley.

"Petunia?" He said again, stepping toward her. Dudley shrieked upstairs. "What's the matter?" She continued to gaze at him with a horrified expression on her face. She let go of her mouth and pointed at the door, but seemed unable to speak.

"What's wrong with the door? Did you see something?" She nodded slowly, and it was then that he noticed the paper in her other hand again. His heart sank. Was it a newspaper? Was there a story about the Potters? Is that why she was so upset?

"Is it, is it _them_?" He asked in a whisper, dropping his voice so low on the word them he could hardly hear himself say it, as if he were afraid someone were listening at their keyhole. "Are they in the, er, newspaper?" She stared at him, then uttered her first word of the morning.

"Worse."

Mr. Dursley stared back at her, aghast. What could possibly be worse than having _them_ mentioned in their newspaper, possibly tying the Dursleys to people like _them_? Mrs. Dursley still seemed incapable of speech, but she raised her hand and pointed at the door again.

With a feeling like lead in his stomach, Mr. Dursley approached the door with the caution one shows to live ammunition. He slowly turned the knob and pulled the door open, putting his head out a minute amount to ascertain what was the cause of all this fuss. He saw the milk bottles on the stoop, not carefully arranged like Petunia usually placed them, but scattered carelessly, some on lying tipped over on their side.

And he saw _something_. What was it? It looked like a pile of blankets, with dark black fur on one end. Could it be an animal of some kind? A dog, or perhaps a skunk? Mrs. Dursley hated all animals, and he could certainly see why this might upset her, but how could it be worse than the Potters being in the newspaper? How could this be as bad as overhearing their name in the street yesterday?

He nudged the bundle with his toe, and _it moved_. He jumped back as if burnt, then peered closer as whatever was inside turned over. Then, with a horror of the like he had never even dreamt possible, he knew. He drew back, his face mottling into an ugly purple and red mixture, as he tried to get a grip on himself.

"That's, that, that's never…" he spluttered, incapable of speech. Dudley's wails were louder now, echoing into the streets, and it sounded like he was yanking on his crib bars, as well. Mrs. Dursley pulled Mr. Dursley back into the house and slammed the door again.

"Shhhh, Vernon," she said, seeming to come to herself a bit, "People will hear." He stood up and poked his eye into the peephole, staring up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed anything. Was it his imagination, or had the curtains of Number 7 twitched ever so slightly?

"We'll, er, well, we'll have to bring it in, won't we?" He said, hoping she might come up with a good reason why they shouldn't, but she just stood there. "I suppose, people might ask questions….shall I just, er, bring it in and, er, put it somewhere for now?"

Mrs. Dursley stared at him helplessly, clutching the paper in her hand. He still didn't know what it was, but he wanted to know less and less as the morning continued. Finally, she nodded. Mr. Dursley opened the door with as much bravado as he could muster, grabbed hold of one of the blankets, and dragged the whole bundle into the house. It bumped a little over the threshold, and a small noise escaped. As soon as it was through the doorway, he shut the door again quickly. Then he and Mrs. Dursley stared down at the baby boy in the blankets that they had just, most unwillingly, brought into their home. Dudley screamed louder and louder as they stood there, watching it wriggle and yawn, a tiny baby fist escaping the blanket to stretch and wave carelessly. Then, to their absolute horror, the baby opened his eyes and looked as them, his eyes almond shaped and a very vivid green.

* * *

A/N: While I've always loved to write, this is my first venture into the world of fanfiction. Constructive comments of all kinds are most appreciated. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley stared in horror as the baby began to stretch, his pudgy fists scrabbling at the floor beyond the blanket in which he was wrapped. He blinked several times, as if trying to gauge his surroundings, then moved his head slightly, searching. His bright green eyes found Petunia's, and he smiled a brilliant smile. Or it would have been a brilliant smile, to anyone other than the Dursleys. From their reaction, the toothy baby grin might have been a devil's sneer.

Petunia jumped back as if physically injured by the eye contact, bumping into Vernon in her haste to back away. The baby rolled again and struggled to get out of the blanket, finally managing to sit up. He gazed around the entryway, his eyes bright and inquisitive. Suddenly he looked up, hearing the wails coming from upstairs. Dudley was about to take the crib apart, it sounded like. Vernon cleared his throat and looked evasively at Petunia.

"Er, shall you get Dudders, then?" he asked carefully, stepping back even farther to avoid the baby's reach. Petunia shot him a rather scathing glance.

"And where shall I put _him_?" she replied in a brittle voice, jerking her head at the baby on the floor. "I can't bring Dudley here, where he might see _him_." Just as Vernon had before, she dropped her voice on the word _him_ as if fearful she might be overheard. He looked sheepish.

"Ah, quite right, quite right. Well, what's to be done then? Shall we take him somewhere? Is there a home or something he can go to, for people like him?" Vernon asked, glaring down at the baby, who seemed to be enjoying the conversation. His little head turned back and forth as they spoke, not knowing they were discussing him, not knowing they didn't want him, not knowing there had never been a more unwelcome guest in their home. He grinned and drooled on the blanket. He was teething, apparently. Petunia glanced down, disgusted, and looked away quickly.

She seemed to be debating something. Vernon watched anxiously as she lifted the paper in her hands, smoothed the edges crumpled by her fist, and read it again. Whatever was that, anyway? She looked at the paper, then at the baby, as Vernon waited rather impatiently. Finally she spoke in a hard voice he did not recognize.

"No, I don't think so, Vernon. I think…." Her voice faded away, and then she squared her shoulders and spoke again, more clearly this time, "I think we're going to have to keep him." Her face was set in an odd expression he had never seen before. Mr. Dursley stared at her, aghast.

"Keep him? Whatever do you mean? Do you mean here, in this house? With Dudders?" Mr. Dursley's face was growing red again. His whole head seemed to light up like a lantern. She grimaced, but nodded.

"Yes, I think so," and she crumpled up the paper, which seemed to be the cause of all this trouble, turned on her heel, and took it into the kitchen. Mr. Dursley could hear her at the stove, and he quickly went in after her. He saw that she had lit the paper on fire from the gas stove and was holding it over the sink, watching it burn. He had never been more stupefied in his entire life.

"Well what are we to do with him then? He can't stay in Dudley's room," he said helplessly. Mr. Dursley had always been full of bluster, but when it came down to it, Mrs. Dursley often ended up with the final say.

"No, of course not. I suppose he can use Dudley's old crib, from when he was a baby. And we'll just put him in the cupboard there," she pointed out the kitchen door, into the hall, at a small door under the stairs. "It's clean, warm, and locks from the outside. So when we go to bed we'll know he won't be burning the house down." It appeared she thought this might be possible. Then she headed out the kitchen door, back into the hallway, saying, "I suppose I'll have to bring Dudley down. I can't leave him there forever. What will the neighbors think, with all this racket?"

Mr. Dursley was sent to the storage space at the side of the house to retrieve the old crib. Once he had brought it in, he saw that it was quite small. A quick, rather furtive glance at the baby on the floor, who was now playing with his toes, told Vernon that he was nearly Dudley's age. Why, he must have already passed his first birthday. When did Petunia say he had been born? Ah, but she never had said, had she? Until yesterday, they had rarely even mentioned the Potters, much less discussed their offspring. He could not believe his bad luck that one of them had actually managed to worm their way into his home! The nerve, honestly.

The cupboard under the stairs was quite small, but the crib fit nicely, and there wasn't really anything the baby could grab, so it would be fine. Mr. Dursley supposed it would be all right so long as the door was locked, so the baby couldn't get out. Mrs. Dursley came down after a time, holding a sniffling Dudley, who was quite put out at being left alone for so long. His nose was a bit pink and his tiny eyes were watery.

"There's my good chap!" Vernon boomed heartily, pinching Dudley's cheeks lightly to bring a smile to his face. Mrs. Dursley stepped right around the baby, who was still on the floor and watching the goings-on with interest, and walked into the kitchen with Dudley. She made a fuss over him as she placed him in his chair and started breakfast. Mr. Dursley stood there a moment, unsure of what to do. Then, finally deciding he lifted the baby with the smallest amount of contact possible, holding him away from his body and putting him into the crib in the cupboard. The baby gazed up at him, not smiling anymore, his face screwing up a bit as Vernon left the room. He left the cupboard door open and followed Petunia into the kitchen.

Dudley sat in his chair, banging his spoon on the tray as Mrs. Dursley put bits of fruit and cereal on a plate for him. As soon as she placed it in front of him, Dudley began eating heartily, dropping the spoon and grabbing at the food with both fists.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley, gazing at his boy fondly. He had never quite realized how lucky he had been to have a boy like Dudley. The comparison between Dudley and the baby in the next room made him feel quite proud. Just then, a noise came from the other room, a pitiful sort of sound, and Dudley gazed about. Mrs. Dursley had not introduced the two boys, so Dudley had no idea what the noise could be. Mrs. Dursley frowned slightly.

"I suppose he must be hungry," she said, frowning. She put some cereal on a plate and took it into the hallway. Mr. Dursley wisely did not comment. He ate his breakfast rather quickly, eager to leave the house.

"Er, goodbye then," he said when she came back into the kitchen, "you'll be all right, will you?" She frowned again, but nodded.

"Oh, Dudley and I will be great. Have a good day, dear." She kissed the air near his cheek as she took his dishes to the sink. She seemed determined to completely ignore the baby in the other room, unless she absolutely had to acknowledge him. Mr. Dursley put on his hat and coat, and headed out the door. He was halfway to his car when he saw one of his neighbors, the older woman who lived a few houses down, passing by the house. He never could remember her name. Some type of fruit, he thought. Mrs. Grape? Ridiculous name, in his opinion. He gazed at her, suspicious, but she merely waved and greeted him with an airy, "Good morning!"

He grunted a reply and got into his car, backed out of the driveway, and onto the street. So eager was he to put distance between himself and that horrible baby that he failed to notice the woman had not passed by his house at all. In fact, she had stopped and seemed to be trying to see in as inconspicuously as possible. Unable to get a good view, she walked right up to the door and, after hesitating a long moment, rang the doorbell.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

If Mrs. Arabella Figg had expected a warm welcome at Number 4, she was sadly mistaken. She rang the doorbell three times, peering through the peephole the wrong way, but all she could see was what looked like a very long, narrow hallway. Finally, after several minutes of standing in the chilly November air, the door opened just enough for Mrs. Number 4 to poke her scrawny head out and stare at her.

"Er, hello," Mrs. Figg faltered, stepping back slightly at the look on Mrs. Number 4's face. She looked mutinous, as if she simply could not handle another thing that day.

"Yes?" Mrs. Number 4 asked curtly, just short of being impolite. She did not open the door any wider, though Mrs. Figg was trying desperately to see around her without being too noticeable. She saw no sign of the bundle anywhere, though to be fair (and Mrs. Figg was always fair), she really couldn't see much of anything around Mrs. Number 4's horsey face.

"Hello," Mrs. Figg said again, "I'm Mrs. Figg, I live at Number 7, just that way." She waved vaguely in the general direction of her house. Mrs. Number 4 glanced briefly, then looked back at Mrs. Figg, her expression growing even darker. Mrs. Figg really did not want to continue, but she steeled herself and spoke again. "I am ever so sorry to bother you at this very early hour, but, you see, my telephone is out, and I really need to make a quick call to my son, if you don't mind. He was meant to pick me up for an appointment today, but I don't think I'll be able to go, after all. Would it be all right if I came in for a moment?"

Mrs. Number 4 just stared at her, seemingly incredulous that anyone would knock on her door at this hour of the morning and ask to use her telephone. Mrs. Figg really couldn't blame her, but she didn't know what else to do. Of course she had no son, and no appointment, but she had made a promise and she had never been one to skirt a duty.

"It really isn't a good time," Mrs. Number 4 said stiffly, and opened her mouth to continue, but Mrs. Figg spoke over her, leaning forward a bit.

"I know it's so rude of me, and like I said, I would never ask, but it is rather important you know. I would be ever so grateful." Mrs. Figg had learned in her life that sometimes the best way to get what you want is to simply refuse to take no for an answer. She stood there, smiling brightly, even reaching out a hand to open the door. Mrs. Number 4 stared at the hand, then, somewhat dazed, opened the door and stepped back.

"Oh, I suppose, but please do hurry. It's in the kitchen, just past the entrance on the wall." Once Mrs. Figg was in, her eyes began darting in every direction, searching for evidence of the bundle. There was nothing. The floor was spotless, there were no blankets anywhere and there was definitely no baby. Except, of course, for the one in the high chair in the kitchen, who had claimed a spoon and was banging it so hard the china in the nearby cabinet was actually rattling.

Mrs. Figg walked slowly down the hallway, which, now she was inside, she could see was not nearly as long and narrow as it had appeared through the peephole. She supposed that was just the way it had looked because she was looking through it the wrong way. Still trying to take in every detail, she noticed a small door under the stairs, which was locked from the outside with a deadbolt. Mrs. Number 4 saw her glance at it and said quickly,

"We keep the cleaning products in there, you know, so Dudley can't get them. I lock it for his safety." She gave a nervous grin. Mrs. Figg nodded and continued to the kitchen. So the boy's name was Dudley. What an odd name, she thought, but then she supposed she couldn't really judge, as her name was Arabella and she had never met anyone with her name before.

"Hello Dudley," she said kindly to the boy in the chair, who didn't even glance at her. He banged harder and shrieked a rather joyful noise that Mrs. Figg took to be some kind of singing. Although she really didn't know very many children, her and Mr. Figg never having had any before he passed. Mrs. Number 4 followed closely behind her, watching every move. She pointed at the telephone on the wall.

"There's the telephone," she said, jerking her arm up and waving distractedly. Mrs. Figg picked up the receiver and dialed several random digits. It made a buzzing sound in her ear, but she pretended the call had gone through.

"Ernest?" She said into the buzzing, speaking up as if to be heard over the howling child, "Yes, it's Mum. My phone is out, so I'm calling from a neighbor's house." She paused for a moment, pretending to listen. "Oh no, I'm not feeling up to it at all today. Can we go next week instead?" She paused again, listening to the buzzing, while her eyes continued to dart around the kitchen. Oh, Dumbledore would be so upset if she wasn't able to give him any news. Surely the boy was here somewhere? "That's a good lad," she said, making a quick decision. It would be very nervy, but she was here already, wasn't she? "I'll get my telephone sorted and ring you later. All right, 'bye then." She hung up and turned to look at Mrs. Number 4, who had already begun to move towards the hall again.

"Oh, thank you ever so much, I don't know how to…." she trailed off mid-word and clutched her stomach, bending over slightly. "Oh my goodness, I don't suppose I could trouble you to use your loo? Only I think it's an awful emergency." She glanced up.

Mrs. Number 4 looked horrified. She looked quickly around the gleaming kitchen, obviously weighing having Mrs. Figg in the house longer versus cleaning up what was sure to be a terrible mess. She spoke quickly.

"Upstairs, first door on your left." Mrs. Figg rushed out the hallway and up the stairs, Mrs. Number 4 following but hovering at the bottom of the stairs, clearly not wanting to witness the scene.

Mrs. Figg took a few minutes in the bathroom, opening drawers and cabinets. She found a prescription bottle with the name 'Dursley' on it. Was that Mrs. Number 4's name? She supposed it may not be the time to ask. After several minutes, she opened the door very quietly and slipped down the upstairs hall, away from the stairs. She glanced in each of the four bedrooms, but still found no evidence that the bundle had made its way into the house. She was completely flummoxed. She tiptoed back to the bathroom and made much more noise coming out again, heading down the stairs where Mrs. Number 4 (Mrs. Dursley?) was waiting.

"Oh, you are a nice neighbor. I can't begin to tell you how embarrassing this is. Thank you so much for letting me use your phone, and your loo. I really appreciate it." She took Mrs. Dursley's hand in hers and clasped it. Mrs. Dursley looked utterly horrified.

"Er, anytime," she replied weakly, taking her hand back rather forcefully, then opened the door. Just as Mrs. Figg was heading through the landing, she heard a noise. It sounded like a baby's giggle, the noise of a child amusing himself. She turned her head and looked down the hall, but Dudley was still in the kitchen, banging his spoon and wailing his song. The noise had definitely come from the hallway somewhere. Her eye fell on the locked door under the stairs. She glanced at Mrs. Dursley, whose face had turned a nasty scarlet shade. Mrs. Dursley unceremoniously pushed her through the door and slammed it shut in her face without another word.

Mrs. Figg stood for a moment on the stoop, shocked. Then she gathered her wits about her and hurried back to her house. She let herself in the front door and, shooing away Tibbles for the second time that morning, went to her writing desk and pulled out some parchment and a quill.

She wrote a quick note, then rolled up the parchment and sealed it with some sealing wax she had lying next to the ink bottle. She supposed a real witch might have been able to seal it with magic, but Mrs. Figg was a Squib, and she couldn't do magic properly. She took the note to the back door, where a handsome tawny owl sat waiting.

"Take this to Dumbledore, all right?" She said, patting the owl's head slightly, then watching as it took off into the sky. With a sigh of relief that her job, for now, was over, she settled down on the couch and called over Tibbles. He was due for a good scratch.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Mrs. Dursley was having a dilemma. Every day at ten o'clock in the morning, she took Dudley out for a walk in the pram, around the neighborhood to give Dudley some fresh air. More importantly, she liked showing off her adorable boy to the neighbors. It was a quarter to ten now, and she hadn't even gotten Dudley dressed yet. What with all the commotion with the baby being unceremoniously dropped on her doorstep, and on top of it all, Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was stopping over to use her telephone and the unmentionable issues that arose thereafter, Mrs. Dursley was quite behind schedule. This was not a position in which Mrs. Dursley often found herself, and it did nothing to improve her mood.

She scowled at the cupboard door under the stairs, as if it had injured her. She could hear little peeps of noise coming out, and, knowing what caused the noise, she crossed her bony arms tightly and stood in the kitchen, thinking. Dudley didn't seem to notice anything was out of the ordinary, now that he had been gotten up and fed. He was still in his chair, banging away with the spoon.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Mrs. Dursley suddenly shrieked, grabbing the spoon and tossing it into the kitchen sink, where it made a huge clanging sound. Dudley froze in his chair, his mouth in a chubby little "O". His mother had never, ever raised her voice at him before. Not even when he kicked her for only giving him a handful of sweets instead of the entire bag as he'd wanted. Just as suddenly, she swooped down and clasped him up in her arms, hugging him tightly.

"Oh Dudders," she moaned into his thick neck, "I didn't mean to shout at you! My poor boy. It's not _your_ fault all this ridiculousness has happened." He struggled in her tight embrace, finally freeing one arm long enough to yank a large section of her hair, so that she yelped and loosened her grip. "Oh darling, I am so sorry," she crooned, patting his face gently and kissing his cheek, making him squirm even more. "I didn't mean to squeeze you so tight! It's just that Mummy has had such a morning!"

It was now ten to ten, and she was getting even more anxious. Of course, she knew that it wasn't strictly necessary to leave the house at ten o'clock exactly. Mrs. Dursley was a creature of habit, however, and she was most pleasant when things were following their normal pattern. Since that had definitely not happened thus far this morning, Petunia was most anxious to get back on track. She whisked Dudley upstairs and put him in the most adorable (and horribly revolting) sailor suit she could find in his closet, complete with a red sailor's knot and a matching cap. Dudley gazed miserably at her from under the slightly too large brim.

"Aren't you adorable!" She cooed, scooping him up and heading back downstairs. His face was a thundercloud. She went to the side closet and pulled out his pram, sitting him up so he could look out. Then she stood in the hall for several minutes, thinking. What about the other one? She supposed it wouldn't be right to leave him alone. She knew he was perfectly safe in the cupboard while she was home, but what if he blew up the house and she wasn't there to stop it? She had no idea what kind of special abilities he might have, or what control he might have over them. She started to remember moments with Lily, in the back yard or at the park; flowers opening and closing at will….but she brought herself up short.

"I just shan't think about that!" She said defiantly, and Dudley yanked off his sailor cap and echoed, "Shan't!" She smiled lovingly at him and put the cap back on his head. He scowled. She tapped her chin thoughtfully, then gazed out the front window for a moment. An idea had occurred to her, but she wasn't sure if it was a good idea. Finally she decided there just wasn't anything else to be doing, and she went over and opened the cupboard.

The baby inside gazed up at her, smiling a toothy grin, a sock dangling from his mouth. He had apparently pulled it off and had been chewing on it. She grimaced and yanked it out of his mouth, putting it back on his foot, though it was quite wet. His smile faded at her scowl and his lips turned down. She pulled him roughly from the crib and put him on the floor. She supposed there wasn't anything else to do but to introduce Dudley to him. She carefully lifted Dudley out and put him down next to the baby.

"Dudley," she said primly, "This is your cousin. Harry." She added his name as an afterthought. Dudley stared at Harry, who stared back. Them quick as a flash, Dudley reached over and pulled Harry's hair, which Petunia thought was much too long and therefore how could Dudley have been expected not to pull it? Harry howled, fat tears leaking down his cheeks. She said nothing but went and got Dudley's coat. Then, thinking, she grabbed Dudley's last spring light jacket. She came back in the hall where Dudley was now poking Harry's face and laughing.

Harry cried harder, looking up at Mrs. Dursley. He lifted his arms to be held, but she reached over him and picked up Dudley instead. She put Dudley's coat on him and put him in the pram, glancing at the clock. It was after ten. She sighed and leaned down, thrusting Harry's arms into the light jacket, which was a bit too small for him. He drooled as he cried, and she really felt as if she ought to go wash up before they left. She wiped her hands on a tissue instead and carried him out the door with one arm, pushing the pram with the other. Harry howled all the way down the block. She kept having the hoist him back up her hip as the jacket was kind of a raincoat material and quite slippery, and he was facing out so he couldn't drool on her.

Harry had never been more miserable in his entire life. Yesterday morning he had been woken by his mother and father, standing together over his crib and grinning at him. His mother had fed him a warm, delicious breakfast, and he had spent the day flying on his toy broomstick and playing with his dad's wand. His mother had scolded him for taking it, but with a smile in her eyes, and she had held him tight for a long time after.

Last night he had been kissed good night by his father. His mother had rocked him to sleep, singing a song about a mockingbird. Although there had been funny dreams, terrible dreams, while he slept, with a lot of high, cold laughter and a strange green light, he had fully expected to wake up in his bed, with his mother and father over him again.

Harry cried louder and louder with each jostling step. Mrs. Dursley gripped him tighter and snarled under her breath, "Shut up you mangy thing!" But she smiled wide at the neighbors who peered out their curtains. She would have waved, but had no extra hand. Finally she arrived at her destination, Number 7, and let go of the pram long enough to ring the doorbell. What was her name again? Mrs. Figgins?

The woman from earlier that morning who had so rudely come into her house opened the door and peeked out, shock on her face. She gazed down at Harry, a slight frown wrinkling her brow. Harry looked abysmal. His face was red and streaked with tears, his nose was running and he was hanging halfway out of Mrs. Dursley's arm grip.

"This is my nephew, Harry," Mrs. Dursley said abruptly, completely avoiding the fact that Mrs. Figgins had probably heard him in the cupboard that morning. "His parents died in a car crash and he'll be living with us. I've got to take Dudley for a walk. Do you suppose he could stay here for a bit? I'm Mrs. Dursley, and you're Mrs. Figgins, correct?"

"Mrs. Figg," Mrs. Figg corrected automatically, quite shocked. So this was Harry, whom she had been asked to look after whenever possible. She hadn't quite expected him to show up on her doorstep only hours after his arrival at Number 4, but she was pleased that her ploy this morning had achieved such quick results. By the actions from previously and the look on Mrs. Dursley's face, however, it wouldn't be prudent to appear too anxious to take the boy. She frowned a bit, but finally nodded and stepped back into the entryway, opening the door wider. She did think it odd that Mrs. Dursley would leave him with her, not even being sure of her name. "Oh, I supposed one good turn deserves another, would you say?" she said, trying sound less delighted and more weary than she was. She'd never been a good actress, but Mrs. Dursley was plainly in a hurry to relieve herself of the boy, even for a short while, so she took no notice.

"Exactly," Mrs. Dursley replied, and unceremoniously dumped Harry on the entryway floor, still howling and sniffling. Dudley stared at Harry from his post in the pram, looking like a little prince in his sailor's cap and coat. Mrs. Figg was clearly expected to admire him, so she said,

"Oh, there's a nice boy, so handsome and dressed up! Are you Mummy's favorite little boy?" she asked in a singsong voice, not thinking about what she was saying.

"Of course he is!" Mrs. Dursley snapped, and turned around to push the pram away. "We'll be back in an hour or so."

Mrs. Figg knew very well that Mrs. Dursley typically walked Dudley for only about twenty minutes in this chilly air, having seen them take their walks before, but she did not complain. Instead she gazed down at Harry, who had stopped crying now that he wasn't being gripped so ferociously by Mrs. Dursley, but he sat there on her floor, hiccoughing and covered in snot. He was not looking like a very nice little boy at the moment, though Mrs. Figg knew full well who was responsible for that.

She took a handkerchief and gently wiped his eyes and nose, then lifted him and put him on the couch. Though she had never had children, she had always wanted them and her arms ached to hold him, to cuddle him and rock him, to tell him everything was going to be all right. But Dumbledore had warned her to go carefully. It was clear that Harry would not be a treasured member of the Dursley household, and Mrs. Figg had an idea that if she showed too much pleasure at watching Harry, Mrs. Dursley might not let him come back. It was important that she keep in the Dursley's good graces enough to keep tabs on Harry, at least until he was old enough to know how to protect himself.

So instead of cuddling him, she fed him a bit of cake she found in the pantry. Tibbles jumped up in his lap and purred, and after a bit, chocolate sticky on his fingers, Harry fell asleep on her couch. Then, after she was sure he was sleeping soundly, she sat next to him and lightly patted his back, softly humming an off-key tune.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Life at Number 4 soon settled into a routine, surprisingly similar to the routine it had been enjoying prior to the arrival of the baby. Mr. Dursley woke, showered, and dressed while Mrs. Dursley readied Dudley for the day and made breakfast. The three of them sat around the table, Dudley in his high chair, every morning and enjoyed a meal together. For why, Mrs. Dursley said primly when Mr. Dursley tentatively brought up Harry, should they spend money on an extra high chair when the baby could just as well eat after Dudley was finished?

"Quite right," had been Mr. Dursley's response, shoveling large amounts of steak and kidney pie into his mouth. They never called Harry by his name. Typically he was known simply as 'the baby', though he was only a month or so younger than Dudley, who was clearly not a baby anymore. Dudley ate nearly as much as Mr. Dursley at most meals, and quite a bit more than Mrs. Dursley, though he wouldn't be two years old for another six months. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley gazed fondly at him as he gobbled up his food, calling him a growing boy. Which he was, of course. The only issue was, he was tending to grow more wide than he was growing in height.

Harry was growing too, though not in the way Dudley was. He always ate after they did, finishing whatever was left over after Mr. Dursley's and Dudley's large helpings. He was getting taller, though nobody at Number 4 noticed this. Mrs. Dursley would then take her morning walk, often dropping Harry off at Mrs. Figg's for a while. She never explained why it was necessary to do this, because her pram was quite large enough for both boys, though admittedly there was less and less room to spare every day. Mrs. Figg never questioned her about it, simply letting her bring in Harry without comment.

One evening, while the Dursley's were watching a television programme and commenting on the ridiculous behaviour of the celebrities on it, Harry crawled into the living room and pulled himself up, clutching onto the couch. He had been doing this in his crib for several weeks, though it was much too small and if anyone had been paying attention, they might have worried that he would fall out. No one was paying much attention as he let go of the couch and took a few halting steps, arms outstretched. A huge grin broke out on his face and he called out "Me! Me!", as if hoping someone might praise him. Mrs. Dursley threw him a scathing glance and said,

"Shh!"

Her voice was sharp, as it always was when she spoke to Harry. His smile faltered, and then his step, and he tumbled to the ground. Though he was on the carpet and had a well-padded bottom, the fall frightened him and he wailed suddenly. Before he knew what had happened, Mrs. Dursley had snatched him up and he was back in his crib, the door to the cupboard slamming shut.

"I knew I shouldn't have let him out," she said irritably, having missed a part of the programme she had been looking forward to. Dudley hollered from his place on the floor, where he sat surrounded by dozens of toys so he never had to move. She smiled lovingly at him and patted his cheek. "Aren't you a darling?" Dudley continued to holler, just making noise, but neither Mrs. nor Mr. Dursley said anything. Mr. Dursley reached for the television remote and turned it up a bit. No one paid any attention to the baby crying in the hall.

At a commercial, Mr. Dursley turned to Mrs. Dursley and said,

"It'll be Christmas soon. When do you want me to get the tree out of storage?" The Dursleys weren't the kind of family to go out into the woods and cut down a tree. Mrs. Dursley couldn't stand the mess, and the house wasn't meant to smell like pine, anyway. It was meant to smell like industrial cleaner, or so Mrs. Dursley believed.

"Mmm," she mused, tapping her chin and looking around the room, "This weekend, I suppose. We can put it up in that window." She pointed to the front window, where she usually liked to put the tree so that the neighbors could see it.

So at the weekend, Mr. Dursley climbed into the storage area and pulled out the tree and decorations, placing it all in the hall. Mrs. Dursley usually put Harry back in his cupboard after breakfast, but she was busy organizing the boxes as Mr. Dursley brought them in, so she didn't bother. Harry toddled around, gazing at the shiny ornaments. Dudley sat in the living room, calling "Mine!" whenever Mrs. Dursley pulled anything out of a box. Though Harry had only lived at Number 4 a few weeks, he had already learned some basic rules of survival, and therefore did not bother trying to get any closer.

That is, until a particularly shiny red bauble tumbled from a well-worn box and rolled toward him. His eyes lit up and he reached for it, as Mrs. Dursley shrieked "Don't touch it!"

Frightened, he dropped the ball and it shattered, scattering pieces everywhere. Suddenly a small gash appeared on his palm, blood dripping onto the floor, where a piece had snagged his skin. He stared at it for a moment, then began to howl in pain. Mrs. Dursley ignored him and furiously began sweeping up the broken pieces with a broom.

"One of my favourite pieces!" she sniffed angrily, "And he might have gotten Dudley hurt!" Dudley, of course, was yards away in the living room, as immobile as a stuffed bear. He wasn't able to crawl, and his legs couldn't hold up his hefty weight just yet. He was perfectly safe.

Harry, though, was not. His hand dripped blood as he cried, his facing turning almost purple in his pain and rage. Mrs. Dursley made sure every piece of the glass was picked up, then she went and got some towels and bleach cleaner to clean the mess. Suddenly, Harry stopped crying completely, as if someone had turned him off like a faucet. His hand dripped slower, then stopped. Mrs. Dursley had been wiping the floor, but now turned to see why he had stopped crying. He was staring at his hand. Petunia grabbed his arm and wiped at his hand to see the damage, then wiped again. What on earth….?

Harry's hand was perfectly fine. There was no tear, no slice in the skin. If Petunia hadn't been cleaning up his blood, she would have thought he had been overreacting. She stared at him, petrified.

Mr. Dursley came into the hall, lugging the last box. He dropped it heavily, sighing with relief, then gazed about.

"Petunia?" he asked, wondering why she was sitting on the floor, staring at Harry.

"Vernon…" she said shakily, getting to her feet, "Harry cut his hand. It was bleeding."

"So? He's fine, isn't he? He's not crying," Vernon said briskly, not bothering to look at Harry. But Petunia bit her lip and looked down again, still gazing at the baby.

"Vernon….he was bleeding. His hand was cut. I saw it. And now….it's not." She said, almost fearfully. Vernon stared at her.

"What do you mean, it's not?" he asked, befuddled, "It's not what?"

"It's not cut. It just, isn't cut anymore. It's fine, look." She pulled Harry towards him, showing him Harry's hand. It was crusty with blood, but otherwise perfectly fine. Harry gazed at them reproachfully, but didn't dare pull his arm back. Vernon stared down at it, perplexed. Then, his whole face changed, suddenly stiff and shocked.

"Do you mean to tell me…are you saying, he _healed it himself_?" Vernon whispered, eyes darting about the hallway. Dudley was staring at them curiously.

"He had to have, hadn't he? It was cut not five minutes ago, and now there isn't even a scar!" Petunia shook Harry's arm at Vernon, who backed away slightly. Harry whimpered. His arm was stretched a bit farther than was comfortable.

"Put him to bed, Petunia, and we'll talk about this." Vernon went into the living room, clearly eager to put some distance between himself and Harry. Petunia picked him up roughly and put him back in his crib. He gazed at her as she backed away, as if afraid he might attack her. She slid the bolt into place with a sigh of relief, then went into the living room to join Vernon and Dudley, the latter of whom was now chewing on the angel which usually topped their tree.


End file.
